Red
by BlueGreenApples
Summary: Four years before Konoha appoints her first Hokage, Mito is elected diplomat to the fledgling city. "Another clan desperate for alliances. Isn't that why the Whirlpool left you to the mercy of Hashirama and I?" Madara asks, deceptively soft: "Was it for the sake of peace?" Madara/Mito/Hashirama. Semicanon past verse.
1. Her Hair

**Red**

* * *

Sixteen and she is a diplomat-a gesture of peace and friendship from the Whirlpool. _A sacrifice_, Mito thinks, only a little bitterly. She tries hard to swallow and ignore the burn of nervousness as it curls along her spine.

"What _hair _she has."

Mito is unsure what to make of that. It is not the first time someone has noted her Uzumaki coloring. Yet, this is hardly the political affair she had expected.

This _was _the location mentioned in the scroll. Her official introduction as Whirlpool ambassador to Leaf. Today, before the founders themselves. And the first words to her are about her _hair_?

Mito has to check the impulse to rock back on her heels, and she presses her lips together against the urge to speak out of turn. Only two men sit at the front of the long, featureless room. Everything looks clean and neat: unused. All is pristine-except the two men.

Both are faintly dusty and look as if they've just come in from the construction going on everywhere outside. Their dirt-streaked forearms and the deep tan of their faces put Mito at a loss. Neither look like the grand, poetic figures she has been prepped to impress. They wear no armor, and no clan affiliation is evident. As they are now, all she can see are a pair of laborers so alike in coloring that they might be brothers.

It is the wilder of the two who spoke, she decides. He is lounging at the low table with all the indolence of a jungle cat. Eyes as dark as the timbre of his voice are tracking her frustration with ill-concealed amusement.

"Madara." Is the soft reprimand which follows the comment. This time it is the taller man who speaks and he offers her a faint smile in welcome.

His eyes flit down to a neat stack of documents. Before he can politely scramble for her name among his appointments, Mito feels her shoulders draw back.

In a voice far firmer than she intended, she announces, "I am Mito. Diplomat of the Whirlpool Village and daughter of the esteemed Uzumaki Clan."

Both men are silent as her tone rings, bright and proud, in the empty hall.

Then the man who had spoken so casually-Madara, she thinks-smiles slowly. The other presses his hands into the wooden desk and sighs. His eyes are earnest as he replies, "I am Hashirama, elder of the Senju Clan and co-founder of Konoha. This is Madara," he gestures to his companion, "of the-"

"_Esteemed _Uchiha Clan." Madara breaks in, watching Mito as he parrots her.

Hashirama ignores his mild rudeness, and continues: "I apologize for the informality of this first appointment. The Village itself is gradually developing. Efforts are spent largely on the planning of the city proper and the establishment of shinobi programs."

Mito feels chastised, even though Hashirama's tone is placid and not at all accusatory. "I understand, of course," she demurs. Her weight swings back as she sways in place, casting about for the right thing to say. Nervousness overpowers her efforts toward proper-appearances, and Mito feels her stiff kimono shuffle around her as she fidgets.

The whisper sound of her hair ornaments, which she had inked so carefully in preparation for this day, seem silly now. She is woefully overdressed, though the men are at least kind enough not to mention it directly.

The slim, precise seals only flutter in her hair, taunting her with the reality of her faux paus. At once, they spark a thought. "I am proficient in seal-working." Glancing back toward Hashirama, Mito offers a quieter, "If that is at all of assistance."

She slips a sliver of paper from her sleeve and asks, "May I?"

Both men eye the bit of parchment for a beat longer than Mito can stand, and she begins to tuck it away with an apology when Madara makes a gesture. His large hand waves her nearer-and without allowing herself to think, Mito approaches.

Her small steps _clack_ unnervingly in the empty hall. She can feel her face flush as she draws up to the low table where the men are seated. Bending primly at the waist, she plucks up the object of her effort: an empty pitcher. The heavy glass thing _clinks_as she replaces it.

She's so nervous her hands are trembling as she lifts her fingers into a one-handed sign. Her concentration is on the inked bit of scroll, and she doesn't see the two men shift into harder-faced versions of themselves as her chakra flares.

Only the cool, liquid sound of water bubbling up in the container breaks the sudden tension. Mito's smile is wide and genuine when the little summoning runs smoothly.

"I am certain," Hashirama says with steady praise, "that your abilities will be invaluable to the Leaf."

It feels prophetic when Madara breaks the short peace with a laugh. He sets his shoulders toward Hashirama without looking away from the beaming Mito. "If that's all?" He asks but disappears without waiting for an answer. The impression of that quiet laughter and the scent of woodsmoke are all that is left behind.

Hashirama simply pours them each a glass of her water, then suggests a tour of the fledgling city. Mito gladly accepts both.

* * *

**AN: Thank you for reading. Visit my LJ for more information for this and other projects. **


	2. His Eyes

**Red**

* * *

Twenty and he is the reluctant patriarch of a village, born of an unnecessary peace treaty. _An alliance of fools_, Madara thinks blackly. He had clawed his way to the pinnacle of the Clan Wars. And for what? City planning and a shinobi bureaucracy? To sit idly beneath a Senju heel?

His angry thoughts are stalled as he catches a glimpse of the girl. _Mito_, he recalls. Mito of Whirlpool is sitting primly in the tall grass outside a row of housing.

"Miko." He calls out as he approaches. When she turns to face him, confusion etched in her features, Madara feigns apology. "No, not a miko. You're the seal-specialist." Making a sweeping gesture toward her white formal kimono and red mane, "Your coloring and dress confused me."

If only to vex her, Madara drops into a crouch beside her, uninvited. "Tell me, Mito; do you always dress as though you're attending a tea?"

Her tone is only a little prickly as she responds, "I dress as a diplomat should, Uchiha-san."

"Madara," he corrects as he glances over the parchments sprawled before her.

"Hmm?" Mito hums as she daubs a thick line of ink into a complex sigil.

"My name, as I am certain you are aware," he repeats as he sits, "is Madara."

She sighs quietly while he settles himself next to her in the grass. Deftly and with impatience, Mito rearranges the leaves of parchment stirred by his movements.

Madara follows her slim hands with his eyes, half-curious and half-pleased by her disquiet. Mito is so easy to rile compared that damned stoic, Hashirama.

Mid-day arrives and the sun has climbed high overhead when Mito finishes her inking. She watches with accomplishment as the dark dye sets in the heat, forming crisp lines.

Madara tips his head back, as if to encompass the whole city as he comments, "It is an ambitious vision, Konoha."

"Yes," Mito replies stiffly. She hasn't quite forgiven his teasing.

Madara is undaunted. "How do you find it?" He lets his gaze come back down, zeroing in on the girl as he adds, "It has been months since you arrived, so righteous and prepared to represent Whirlpool."

Mito feels her back go ramrod straight at the faint amusement in his tone. She is begrudgingly civil as she bites out, "Konoha is everything I had imagined. The Leaf is a great and honorable ally of the Whirlpool, Uchiha-san."

This time, Madara dips his larger upperbody into her personal space as he corrects, "Madara is my name."

Her lips thin and her cheeks color, but Mito does not restate herself or shift away. He has done this occasionally since she arrived. He turns up, instigates a bit of annoyance, and generally wanders off again. She wouldn't call him _harmless_, but Mito doesn't outright fear the Uchiha's mischievousness.

When she doesn't seem likely to speak again, Madara looks thoughtful. "Whirlpool," he tilts his head. Long, dark hair flutters against Mito's shoulder as he continues to crowd her. "I recall few skirmishes with that region."

Her voice is matter-of-fact as she recites her response, as though it were a history lesson: "We are a largely peaceful people. Many, like myself, are predominantly scholars of chakra manipulation. However, seals like these can and have been used in combat. Bands of shinobi were not uncommon in our homelands. My Village protected itself but never sought to expand its borders."

A short bark of a laugh is his response. "Another clan desperate for alliances. Is that why your Whirlpool left you to the mercy of Hashirama and I," Madara wonders quietly, "was it for the sake of peace?"

Unsure of his question, Mito looks up. For the first time, she is near enough to peer beyond the long fall of his hair and see his face clearly. Her response is immediate. "Your _eyes_!"

A sardonic tilt falls over Madara's features at her reaction. Leaning yet closer, his tone conspiratorial, he whispers, "That's not an uncommon reaction, little Mito. Usually begging follows afterward."

Mito can only watch, aghast as the design begins to spin. The illustrated scroll she had studied gave only a brief description. _Red field, black design_—the scribe had recorded—_suspected hypnotic qualities_.

"These are the legacy of the Uchiha Clan." The profound anger that infuses those words fail to sink into Mito's mind—she is entranced by the pinwheel spin of his sharingan and the nearness of his face.

Between them, the air seems to thicken and slow. The only thing stirring is a rising wind, catching in the trees and making them groan. A bit of Mito's hair is raked loose and flags between she and Madara. Faster she imagined was possible, his eyes trace the movement.

"They—" her voice creaks, and Mito swallows thickly to overcome her newfound weariness of the man before her. "Are they. . . a weapon?"

Madara simply captures the flyaway, tucking it back with a curious carefulness. Her eyes go wide as she feels his hard palm scrape behind her ear, ghosting through her long hair.

Mito isn't sure what to call the expression that overcomes his face. She is pinned at his side, the solid mass of him looming dangerous and a little thrilling at once.

She thinks he is going to act—lean nearer or speak, perhaps—when the branches overhead begin to clatter together. The bolstered wind catches at her freshly-inked parchments. The moment is broken as she fidgets, nervously eyeing her newest scroll. Muttering apologies, Mito inches from his side and gathers up her supplies.

Once they are neatly stacked and pinned beneath the weight of her hands, she makes conversation but no attempt to sit quite as close as before. "I apologize." Nodding to the heavy boughs above, she reasons, "But if the wind is strong enough to shake those, I had to fear for my pages."

Madara just watches the small smile Mito offers with unfamiliar eyes. Then he says wryly, "Ah, but I think you have it wrong."

"I did not feel a breeze blow in, then?" Mito asks with a laugh in her voice as she indulges him.

"Yes and no," he baits. "A wind came, but it did not disturb those trees."

"No?"

"No." Catching at the fallen strands of her hair again, he fans the ends. "This time," Madara stares for a moment over her shoulder, expression frozen, "I think it was the trees who stirred the wind."

Overhead, the boughs quiet and Madara relaxes but does not release Mito's hair.

Feeling girlish, she watches his long hands. He turns the flyaway, catching the sun across it in a bright shimmer again and again. "Mother used to say when it did that, the color reminded her of scarlet koi."

Madara seems to come back to himself at the sound of her voice. Blinking lazily, he untangles his fingers and drawls, "Flame."

"What?" Mito asks mostly to fill the sudden awkwardness.

Madara stands and hardly looks at her. Tersely, he repeats, "I said flame. Your hair doesn't remind me of koi scales. It's like wildfire."

Before Mito can scrape together some reply, Madara is gone with a wisp of smoke.

An hour later, Hashirama finds her still frozen. Rather than probe, he settles himself next to her. Not in the same place as Madara, but with the same eerie grace. It is an unconscious mirror of his friend, and Mito wonders if they realize how alike they are, even in their opposition.

He says nothing, but glances up at the row of houses behind them. Later she realizes—when, overnight, a beautiful sakura tree sprouts to full-flowered beauty outside her bedroom window—that he is trying to remember which is hers.


	3. Prelude I: Her

**Red**

* * *

Mito has begun taking on more duties in Konoha-now she manages the appointments of the village representatives. In the official sense, she is only expected to meet and placate the visitors while Hashirama is rounded up from whatever corner of the Village he is lost to when he _should _be politiking.

In the days and weeks that unfurl between her arrival and the first time she thinks of the Leaf as home, though, Mito begins to feel more like a secretary. And along with the boredom comes a faint sense of belonging.

She realizes this as she sits idly, early one morning. Her over-long nails are slipping along the channels of grain in her beautiful wood desk. It, too, had been a spontaneous gift from Hashirama. He had carved it of a rare wood, he had assured her, which could not stain and needed no varnish. It stood out, curved and luxurious beside the spartan lines of the rest of the office.

"Hello, Mito."

A shallow nick appears in the smooth surface-scratched by her nail as she jolts with surprise. Rather than look up she smooths her fingers over the blemish. Hashirama won't notice, but she feels guilty.

Madara is gathering a the tips of her hair between his fingers before she can reply. "What hair you have." He teases again, sitting atop the papers she had intended to review.

She knows he means the unusual sight of her unbound hair. "A gift to myself."

He hums with interest, encouraging her to continue. The caginess that seems to follow him is dissipated today-it's certain that Hashirama has finally consented to a spar.

Though their rivalry confuses Mito, she is beginning to see it form cycles.

She only smiles and asks lightly, "You're pleased. Should I worry for Hashirama?" _Or should I worry for you?_ Mito studies the young man before her, thinking of the worry lines deepening in Hashirama's face recently. There is a roiling pressure building in Leaf, but she isn't sure when it will boil over.

Red eyes hunt down the expressions on her face. For a lurching moment Mito wonders if he can read her mind.

A darker cast has fallen over his angular features. Slowly he leans forward, working his wrist and twining her hair over the back of his hand.

A faint sting at her scalp encourages her to bow her face as well. As the hard line of his jaw meets her temple, Mito keeps one hand on the raw wood desk. Just a pulse of her chakra will bring Hashirama. She knows it, but she waits instead.

"He is not worthy of your concern." Madara's voice is a hot rasp against her brow, and Mito feels her heart jog at the sensation.

"Mito." A deep voice calls, and Mito straightens like a shot.

"Hashirama, your appointment schedule is here. I-" Her words are cut short as she smiles toward the doorway where Hashirama has appeared. Though Madara has moved, and the paper she needs is just out of reach-because he still has not released his grip.

Rather, the Uchiha lingers just behind her chair with the long fall of her hair coiled like rope in his grasp. An unnaturally warm palm finds the crook of her neck and Madara calls in greeting, "Hashirama."

The two men watch each other for longer than is comfortable. Mito can see only Hashirama-and he seems focused on the possessive touch at her shoulder. Madara's fascination with her hair has always been reluctantly tolerated by the taller man. Mito would not call the expression on the Hashirama's face anything like _tolerance_ now.

"I will be receiving for the rest of the day, Mito." The dismissal in his tone is clear.

Gathering the few things she brought along, Mito quickly turns to leave. She can hear Madara stir to follow. Hashirama tenses, and it's as if the frustrated capability that usually trails the Uchiha has clouded over him instead.

His dark eyes flick to Madara and he says, "A word?"

Madara makes a faint, amused sound but Mito can feel her shoulders wilt. She thought, perhaps, he would ask her to stay.

Rather than comment, Mito joins Hashirama near the door. Tucked for a moment under his arm, she tries to meet his eyes. He instead watches Madara as he bids, "Remember the dinner with the Mizu damiyo, next evening."

"Yes." Is her plain reply.

Something in Madara's expression must have frustrated him. A terse goodbye and the door slams as Hashirama slides it closed behind her.

Mito lingers on the stone steps. Although his voice is calm, Hashirama's disappointment was clear. It weighs, curiously heavy in her thoughts.

There come no voices from behind the thin door and Mito knows they will not discuss whatever it is that has them at odds, so long as she lingers. With a conflicted mind, she turns and walks slowly home.

Beneath the mottled shade of a thousand branches, Mito feels the first crack race along her hope for Konoha. _How long_, she wonders,_ will they last this way?_


End file.
